In Memory Of
by ThisIsJayKay
Summary: A piece of appreciation, gratitude and admiration toward all those who gave their lives for the greater good. In memory of the fallen warriors, the honoured and the unsung.


The whispering, mournful crowd fell silent as Harry stepped up onto the makeshift platform, the enormity of what he was about to do striking him. He swallowed, but this time, it wasn't a simple case of nerves that bothered him: it was what he was doing this for - the reason behind it all, the _cause_ - that induced the painful lump in his throat which no amount of swallowing quelled. He fingered his wand as a tense feeling germinated in his gut; how could he have possibly thought that he was up for this? How could he have imagined that he could go through the whole ceremony, the entire process, in one piece? Wasn't it likely that he would succumb to tears not long after he began commemorating the fallen?

Before he could render himself more panic-stricken, he caught Ginny's eye in the throng. Her red, blotchy visage betokened long hours of sobbing violently over all the losses they had sustained, even though eight days had gone by since the battle. But eight days were nothing, Harry thought sadly, when the heavy blow of such tragedies had to be assuaged. Ginny looked as if she was about to burst out crying any second, but when Harry met her gaze, she stiffened perceptibly to avoid the tears leaking out from her eyes and the scream of woe from breaking out. She nodded at him and, even from such a distance, he could see her hanging on to her steely will, resolving to be strong for him. He saw all that, sensed it, thanked her silently, in the space of about a moment and entertained a sudden great surge of love for her. If she was capable of staying firm and standing tall and straight for him, couldn't he do the same for her and for every other person that stood in the assembly of grief-stricken souls in front him?

Swallowing one last time, Harry pointed his wand at his throat and murmured, "_Sonorous_." An uncanny sensation pierced the area where he assumed his larynx was located and then went away.

"Good morning," he greeted everyone. "You know what we have all gathered here for. We will be conducting a final farewell, hailing the fighters who gave their lives in the hope of a better world, before we bury them."

The silence, if possible, increased in pitch, until Harry could hear every sniff, every rustle as a handkerchief was fished out of a pocket, every sigh of the wind as it passed through the trees of the Forbidden Forest nearby.

"Before I list the names of all our fallen warriors, I want to say something." Harry heard a voice that sounded suspiciously like McGonagall say in his mind, _Be formal for the sake of formality, Potter._ He didn't know where the arbitrary thought came from, but he was determined to say "I want to" instead of "I'd like to" because he knew this was too personal, too raw and real and _there_ in the hearts of everyone, for him to behave as if this was a simple meeting to discuss something mundane. That was why he hadn't prepared a speech in advance; he had known that if he were to read from a piece of parchment, the words would come out dry and meaningless and unnecessarily posh - all the things he didn't want them to be.

"All those who sacrificed themselves for the greater good were heroes. _Are_ heroes. But they were completely human as well. It wasn't easy for them to watch their loved ones get ripped away from them, they didn't find it simple to forgive when they received news of their beloved ones getting tortured and killed every day. It drained the hope from them, sucked the will to continue battling from them. But they persevered. They weren't born with a natural ability to deflect the effects of death instilled within them, and yet they continued their valiant combat. That, I think, deserves much more credit than if they had been."

Harry paused to survey those before him. Almost all of them were openly sobbing, clutching their hands and handkerchiefs to their faces, their figures shaking. Hagrid, who was sitting the farthest away from Harry, was the reason behind the mini-flood taking place in the grounds. The centaurs had stridden out of the Forbidden Forest, their bodies gleaming in the bright sunlight; they were standing in a long line across the border of the forest, their heads bowed slightly as they listened to Harry in silence. Seeing their noble forms positioned so still in respect of what he was saying and who he was saying it for and why he was standing here in the first place made something in Harry's stomach clench; the old mantra of _don't-let-me-cry-don't-let-me-cry-don't-let-me-cry _returned to his head with full force. His throat dried up, his eyes misted and he found that he couldn't garner the determination to get a grip on himself.

So with watery eyes and a voice that he couldn't rid of a tremor, he resumed, "And so it is that I urge you all to stay strong and smiling, and even if that's the last thing you think you can manage at the moment, even if the very thought fills you with scorn, think about this: do you really think that those who laid down their lives to ensure that you will lead a better life would like to see you breaking down because you think you can't live without them? I've lost people, too," he added softly, the dryness in his throat fading away and the tears making their quick and steady path down his cheeks: he realised that tears wouldn't mar the ceremony; rather, they would serve to be a physical manifestation of the honour that was being bestowed upon the fighters, "I've lost more than I thought was possible. And I know how you feel. You feel you can't live without them and, in part, that is true, because your life will never be the same in their absence. But they're not truly gone: they continue to live on in our hearts and memories and in the statues of honour erected in their names, in every moment and every flick of time, eternally."

He elicited a mixed reaction from the crowd; some people put their hands over their hearts in a sort of salute, a gesture of understanding. Others emitted low moans of anguish. Most continued to weep harder, but Harry knew his words had had a positive effect on them.

Deciding that a fitting conclusion before listing the names of the fallen would be the one that had sprung into his mind a few minutes ago, he finished, "All those who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts - in the Second Wizarding War, really, and the First Wizarding War, too - are heroes. Those that have survived the fight carry the badge of honour on their chests and those who sacrificed themselves will be remembered for their bravery until the very end."

As if they had practiced for this, a simultaneous murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, but Harry knew it was instinctive. "Always."

* * *

**Author's Note:** What I'm supposed to be doing - studying. What I'm actually doing - writing BoH-anniversary stories and effectively ripping out my appendages (figuratively speaking, of course) with all the goddamn feels and making myself cry with said feels. I _needed_ to write this, revision be damned. So here you are, even if I'm posting this at almost ten-thirty pm my time.


End file.
